Quel Saige is a pseudonym, if ever there was one. It is the feeling you get when you remember something (someone?) long forgotten. It is the pang of regret for a comma or comment misplaced. It is the vu of presque vu and the death of all not yet living. He hopes you read with an open mind and an open heart and that wisdom would rule in your life, even when nothing else makes sense.
He also loves science, music, and philosophy, and probably finds you objectionable and lovable at the same time. Saige is not sage, but he hopes for you to be and thanks you for reading.
A little ruby-throated bird
Landed there without a word
Upon the roof, the bird alighted
Looking regally beknighted
As I kneel,
A ghost of a smile
Passes over my lips.
Ironies too cruel to admit.
These cherry blossoms drifting everywhere,
My senses overwhelmed but not yet gone.
This fog, it clouds my vision here and there,
I wonder just how far from here to yon
Why, when looking to Him,
Do we look up and not back?
Why, when we cannot be bothered to look,